


How Did We End Up Like This Again?

by sator_square



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling and Snuggling, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sator_square/pseuds/sator_square
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John/Mycroft/Lestrade/Sherlock cuddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Did We End Up Like This Again?

John knew he should be grateful that Sherlock was actually sleeping for once. That had been the point of the whole plan, after all. And John really would have been grateful... had Sherlock not fallen asleep right on top of him, cuddling up to him and refusing to let him go.  
  
It had all started so simply. Sherlock had been up for three days straight without rest, despite the lack of a case to work on. Sherlock, being Sherlock, had taken to scratching out long series of loud, angry, unmelodic noises on the violin. He'd started just after dinner (which he hadn't even eaten) and continued well after midnight.  
  
At nearly three in the morning, John had got fed up with the whole thing and had literally dragged Sherlock kicking and screaming back to his room. He might be shorter than Sherlock, but he was a soldier. He knew how to take down a larger opponent when necessary.  
  
Once they'd reached the bed, he'd simply forced Sherlock down into it, declaring that neither of them were leaving until Sherlock got some kind of sleep.  
  
Sherlock had struggled at first, but John had been persistent. Either they would both get the rest they needed, or they would spend the whole night fighting, but there was no way John was about to let Sherlock escape from the room to start torturing his violin again.  
  
Surprisingly, the plan had worked far better than John could have anticipated. After Sherlock had realized that John was serious, and that he was not, in fact, going to be able to leave the room before morning arrived, he'd... settled down. He'd... hugged, John, even.  
  
At first, John was certain Sherlock had done it in an attempt to make him uncomfortable and get him to back off. Sherlock knew he wasn't a huggy person, as such; he'd been thinking of the grip he had on Sherlock as something akin to subduing an enemy combatant. However, he wasn't going to let a simple hug put him off of his mission. Sherlock was going to sleep that night, whether he wanted to or not.  
  
If only he could say the same for himself.  
  
Sherlock fell asleep well before John did, sprawled out right on top of him. Where John had previously been holding Sherlock to his chest to keep him from running off again, it now seemed more like Sherlock had simply plopped down on top of an extremely comfortable human pillow.  
  
John was starting to feel a little awkward now that he'd accomplished his goal. He wanted to get back to his own bed, but there didn't seem to be any way of doing it without waking Sherlock. It wasn't a risk he was willing to take, not after all the work he'd put into getting the man to sleep in the first place. On top of that, the position they were in was actually fairly comfortable, his normal feelings about cuddling with other men aside.  
  
So he simply lay there, eventually falling asleep himself.  
  
Morning arrived only a few hours later. Sherlock was still deeply asleep, his breath brushing lightly against John's neck. John would have been asleep, too, if he hadn't heard someone knocking on the door.  
  
He thought over his options. He still didn't really want to wake Sherlock -- Sherlock willingly sleeping for any length of time was something of a miracle -- but it could very well be important. Most of the time, Lestrade contacted them by phone or text, but if the case was especially serious...  
  
The knocking continued. Fortunately, John heard Mrs. Hudson answering the door a few seconds later. "Inspector!"  
  
"Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade acknowledged. "Are Sherlock and John in?"  
  
"I... I really don't know. Sherlock was making that awful racket with his violin a few hours ago, but it's been quiet since then. I haven't seen either of them go out, though."  
  
"Why don't I go check on them?" Lestrade said.  
  
John heard him marching up the stairs.

Knowing that Lestrade might see them like this was enough to make John willing to risk waking Sherlock up. He shoved Sherlock away.  
  
Or he tried to, anyway. Sherlock made a sleepy, irritated noise, then hugged John even tighter, preventing him from going anywhere.  
  
John didn't enjoy the irony of the situation one bit.  
  
"Sherlock," he whispered, gently slapping Sherlock's head. John could hear Lestrade's footsteps out in the sitting room.  
  
"Hello? Anyone here?" Lestrade called. "I have a case."  
  
"Sherlock," John repeated, more urgently this time. He pressed his hand against Sherlock's shoulder, putting as much force into it as he could.  
  
Sherlock made an even louder sound of discontentment. A bit too loud of one.  
  
"Sherlock?" Lestrade called. His footsteps grew louder.  
  
John frantically upped his efforts to get Sherlock away from him.  
  
But it was too late. Lestrade walked right into the open doorway, then stopped, looking like he was about to turn around and walk right back out. "Oh! Sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt anything--"  
  
"You aren't!" John said quickly. "This... this isn't what it looks like."  
  
Lestrade looked at him skeptically, a smile tugging at his lips. "What is it, then?"  
  
"It's..." John tried to think of an explanation that wouldn't sound ridiculous, but couldn't. "It doesn't matter what it is. Just help get him off of me."  
  
“That shouldn't be too difficult, should it?” Lestrade said, setting the case file down at the foot of the bed. He grabbed Sherlock around the waist and pulled with all his might.  
  
John pushed at the same time, hoping their combined power would be enough to have an effect.  
  
It wasn't. Sherlock mumbled another irritated protest, then abruptly knocked Lestrade over onto the bed, rolling over on top of him and leaving all three of them sprawled in a heap. Both John and Sherlock were now lying on top of Lestrade, the combined weight of their bodies enough to prevent him from using the bulk of his strength. John lay mostly on top of Sherlock, but Sherlock's arms were still wrapped tightly around him, preventing him from getting up in spite of the position. Sherlock's head rested just below Lestrade's chin, with John's head next to it.  
  
Lestrade lost his grip on Sherlock's waist during the roll. He moved his arms around awkwardly for a moment, as though trying to figure out where he was supposed to put them, before finally resting one hand on John's back and the opposite hand on Sherlock's side in a sort of large, loose hug.  
  
John pulled one arm free of Sherlock, resting it over Lestrade's shoulder. “How can one man be this inconvenient, even when he's sleeping?” he complained. “This is hopeless.”  
  
“It's not hopeless,” Lestrade said. He tilted his chin down, speaking almost directly into Sherlock's ear. “Sherlock. I have a case for you.”  
  
Sherlock stirred for a moment, but didn't wake.  
  
Lestrade shuffled his feet around for a moment, a look of intense concentration on his face. Through some dexterous coordination, he was able to get the file at the foot of the bed into one of his hands. He waved it in front of Sherlock's nose, accidentally hitting John's in the process. “A case, Sherlock. You have a case.”  
  
“You don't think he's literally going to smell the case, do you?” John asked.  
  
“You never know with him,” Lestrade replied.  
  
John had to concede the point, especially when Sherlock opened his eyes, looking blearily at the file in front of him.

“A case?” Sherlock asked, voice still heavy with sleep. He fumbled for the file and opened it.  
  
John took the opportunity to attempt to separate himself from the pile. He made to shift to the side, succeeding only in jostling the two of them around in the process.  
  
Sherlock held him firmly in place. “Stop moving, John,” he said. “You're distracting me.” He yawned, then dropped the file on Lestrade's face. “Boring. It was obviously the landscaper.” He turned slightly, burying his head in Lestrade's neck while still holding on to John.  
  
“The landscaper?” Lestrade repeated, reaching up and moving the file away. “And how do you know that?”  
  
“Because... hmm...” Sherlock mumbled, clearly already back on the edge of sleep. “...check the... next house on his... work list. Under... begonias.”  
  
John felt Sherlock's breathing slow as sleep took him again. He looked up at Lestrade. “Begonias?”  
  
Lestrade shook his head. “If that's what he says...” He frowned, then licked his lip once. “Er. John... Could you get my mobile for me? It's in my left pocket.”  
  
John twisted his arm around, reaching beneath Sherlock and into said pocket. He handed the mobile to Lestrade. “You aren't... calling for help, are you?” he asked, not exactly thrilled at the thought of someone else seeing them like this. Especially not any of the people Lestrade had available to help them.  
  
Lestrade cleared his throat. “No... no, I think we can handle this on our own,” he said, clearly of the same opinion. “I just need to tell Donovan to check the begonias.” He fired off several text messages, then set the mobile down on the bed. “Let's get to it, then.”  
  
Lestrade and John pushed, pulled, and cajoled Sherlock with all their might, to no avail. No matter how they moved or where, Sherlock always managed to end up cuddled between them, arms wrapped around one of them, the other pinned by the weight alone. The continued movement didn't wake him at all; in fact, he seemed to take it as a sort of snuggling, nuzzling his head against both Lestrade and John at every available opportunity.  
  
After ten minutes of continuous struggle, Lestrade stopped moving. He and Sherlock were on top of John, now, with both Sherlock's arms and legs wrapped around Lestrade's body. Lestrade's coat was on the floor.  
  
“You aren't giving up, are you?” John asked, still trying to wiggle free.  
  
“We might as well wait it out. He can't sleep forever,” Lestrade reasoned. “It's not so bad.”  
  
“Not so bad...?” John repeated irritably.  
  
“Kind of nice, really. Having a cuddle.” Lestrade wrapped his arms around Sherlock, this time in a real hug.  
  
Sherlock sighed contentedly.  
  
John was about to start yelling at the both of them, but his train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening, followed by slow, steady footsteps on the stairs.  
  
John had just prepared himself to face a real threat when Mycroft stepped into the doorway.  
  
Mycroft blinked once when he saw three men on the bed, then gave them a small, barely visible smirk. “John,” he said casually. “Inspector.”  
  
Lestrade tried to pull back a little, but Sherlock made a noise and clung to him more tightly. “Mr. Holmes,” he said, looking distinctly embarrassed at the situation he'd been caught in.  
  
“Why are you here, Mycroft?” John asked, annoyed by the smug look on the man's face.  
  
“According to my... various means of perception, you and Sherlock have been behaving irregularly today. I came to see why.” He gestured at the bed. “And I have seen.” He turned to leave.  
  
“You aren't going to help us get free, then?” John asked.  
  
Mycroft turned back. “Impossible, I'm afraid. You'll simply have to wait until he chooses to let go of you.”

“He's done this before, then?” John asked, having the sudden image of Sherlock cuddled up against a struggling Mycroft. The way Mycroft was carefully avoiding coming within arm's reach of Sherlock did nothing to contradict the thought.  
  
“He used to do it fairly often,” Mycroft replied, walking closer to the head of the bed. “However, he was much smaller then, which made things somewhat easier.”  
  
“You could actually get him off of you, you mean,” John said.  
  
“Oh, dear me, no,” Mycroft replied. “I mean it was possible to carry him around for the duration.”  
  
“Oh.” John imagined a tiny sleeping Sherlock riding around on Mycroft's back, and couldn't help the small smile that followed. “You could still help us, you know. Sherlock only has two arms. He can't trap all three of us.”  
  
“Yes, but he could trap me, and then where would I be?” Mycroft turned back toward the door.  
  
John reached out as far as he could as quickly as he could, grabbing Mycroft's wrist.  
  
Mycroft stopped walking, but made no move to turn around, or even to yank his arm free. “John,” he said, voice overly filled with patience.  
  
“Mycroft,” John replied evenly. He didn't give Mycroft time to reply – he yanked the man straight down on the bed next to the three them. “Sherlock,” he said, tilting his head down. “Mycroft's here.”  
  
Mycroft scrambled to get away, but it was too late.  
  
One of Sherlock's eyes blinked open. “Mycrof...?” he mumbled, sleepy face lighting up when he saw his brother. He immediately wrapped his arms around Mycroft from behind, resting his hands on Mycroft's stomach. He tangled their legs together.  
  
The movement left Lestrade free at the far side of the bed and John free in the middle. John tried to seize the opportunity to escape, but Mycroft quickly rolled both himself and Sherlock over and grabbed John around the waist. “I'm sorry, John,” Mycroft said, in a tone that was not remotely apologetic, “but I'm afraid that if I have to remain here for the next several hours, you do as well.” He rested his chin on John's shoulder, pressing the side of his head against John's cheek.  
  
John wondered for a moment if spooning with Mycroft was a better or worse outcome than spooning with Sherlock, but he quickly gave up on trying to figure that one out.  
  
Lestrade sat up next to John on the bed, looking a little... awkward. “I'll just leave you three to it, then,” he said, hesitating for a long moment before even beginning to move away.  
  
John almost let him go – he did have a murder case to attend to, after all – but the painfully slow speed of Lestrade's retreat made him change his mind. “Like hell you will,” he muttered, pulling Lestrade down into a tight embrace. This event was already too embarrassing to ever be spoken of again, so he had no reason to hold back.  
  
Lestrade didn't make even a perfunctory effort to get away. He returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around both John and Mycroft.  
  
As John lay there, pressed between Mycroft and Lestrade, he realized that this had to be the most touch he'd ever experienced at once in his entire life. There was scarcely a centimeter of his body that wasn't currently in physical contact with either Mycroft, Lestrade, or Sherlock. His chest was pressed against Lestrade's, his stomach and sides were in the firm grip of Mycroft's hands and arms, and his legs were lightly touching Lestrade's in the front and Mycroft's in back.  
  
Mycroft, of course, was at his back, the warmth of his body fully and evenly present from the top of John's neck all the way down to the top of his legs, but for the spot in the small of John's back, where Sherlock's hands were resting on Mycroft's stomach.  
  
He could feel both Mycroft and Lestrade breathing, chests moving in and out on a slow and steady pace. Mycroft fell asleep first, his head going slack against John's cheek, but his arms remaining as tight as ever.  
  
Lestrade followed suit, his face bearing an extremely contented expression as consciousness left him.  
  
Even John soon felt himself drifting off, falling into the most restful sleep he could ever remember having.


End file.
